If I Never Knew You
by HiddenDepths-x
Summary: We all know how important that first meeting on the Hogwarts Express was. But what if Hermione had declined her place at Hogwarts? What would change in the fight against Voldemort? And would the bond she and Ron share survive never having met?
1. Prologue

**Prologue **

1st August 1991 

Hermione looked down at the piece of paper clutched in her hand, the ink smudged where her fingers had run along each line, making sure each small word was actually real. She'd been staring at it for the past two hours, but she still had no idea what to do. No matter what her parents might say about it being her decision, she knew exactly what they thought of as her "most desirable option". For what felt like the millionth time she read the letter again.

_Dear Miss Granger, _

_We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed… _

It wasn't logical. It wasn't normal. It wasn't even particularly convincing – Hermione didn't know why she was just supposed to believe this McGonagall woman without ever having met her. But the weird thing was, she did believe her. All the strange events of her childhood had suddenly been explained to her in a way that made complete sense, no matter what her mother said.

And wouldn't it be nice to fit in? If she really could do… _magic _– she almost laughed aloud at the very thought – then surely there would be other children who could do it too. She would meet people like herself at this school: outcasts, just like her. For once she wouldn't be in the minority, there would be people who had the same talents and dreams as her. She might make friends…

Sighing, she looked at the other letter lying on her bureau, announcing to the entire world her acceptance to the prestigious Fettes College in Edinburgh. Though it hadn't been her idea to travel the 300 odd miles from her home in Blackheath to Scotland to take the entrance exam, she couldn't help feeling a little proud to be chosen from such a huge group of applicants. Not as proud as her parents had been, however, but she had been perfectly happy to go to Fettes as a boarder and study to be a lawyer like she had always wanted. Until the other letter arrived. Now she didn't know what to do.

Organised as always, Hermione had drawn up a pros and cons list for both schools, and on paper it seemed as if Fettes was the ideal choice. It was certainly the easier alternative, and surely it was stupid to gamble her future on something she wasn't completely certain was even real. It was just so… un-Hermione. Maybe that was why she wanted more than anything to write back to Fettes and tell them to stuff their place: she didn't need it, she was going to be a witch!

Hermione shook herself, hardly believing she was so out of control. Was she not the rational one? Of all the children at her tiny primary school, did she not have the most potential to really make something of herself? Then why was she acting like a baby again, believing in fairies and witches and magic wands just because some letter had fallen through her door?

She would make the right choice, she would go to Fettes, and she would make her parents proud. She scrunched the letter up and rocketed it into the bin. There was no such thing as magic.

**A/N – Just thought I should point out to those of you who do not hail from the UK: Fettes College is actually a private High School which calls itself a college, no idea why. Anyway, very famous, very expensive. Hope this clears up any confusion!**


	2. A Right Mess

**Chapter 1 – A Right Mess**

_If I never knew you  
I'd be safe but half as real  
Never knowing I could feel  
A love so strong and true _

_I'm so grateful to you  
I'd have lived my whole life through  
Lost forever  
If I never knew you_

By Alan Menken and Steven Schwartz

19th September 2000

God, what a day. Pulling out her keys Hermione locked the door of the shabby little office she had just stepped out of, yanking it towards her so the lock would click into place. She heard it groan in protest – she was really going to have to see about getting that replaced before it gave in one day soon and just disintegrated at her touch. She turned to leave before letting out a cry and stumbling sideways into the wall as her heel twisted painfully over the broken floorboard. Reaching down to rub at her ankle, she grimaced as half the wallpaper went with her. Maybe the door would have to wait.

"That's me going now, John," she called out to the caretaker, who she knew would be lounging in his office in front of BBC sports, doing everything but his job. Naturally.

"Already, Miss Granger?" John replied, and she could imagine his cheeky grin and the twinkle in his eye as he teased her. "Why, it's only just gone 7!" She heard his laughter echoing behind her as she wrenched the storm doors shut so the dead bolt would slide into place.

Ha ha ha, Hermione thought. She knew her co-workers thought she was a little odd, throwing herself into her job with dedication that hadn't really been seen by them before – they were more inclined to take John's approach to life. But she couldn't help it, she just always seemed to give absolutely everything 100 percent. And she just loved to fight for a cause-

Ow! Pain coursed through her ankle as she limped along the street, cursing herself for forgetting about the hole in the floor the _one day_ she had deigned to wear heels. Never again, special occasion or not. Whoever invented these things hated all women.

She thought about trying to find a taxi rank, but then realised that it was 7 o'clock on a Wednesday night in London and she should probably just stick to the way she knew and walk. It would be quicker anyway. She skirted past the drunk lying in the middle of the pavement as gracefully as she could on what she now suspected was a pretty badly sprained ankle, shooting him an icy look. She couldn't stand people like that, who put their habit before everything and everyone in their lives.

Frowning, Hermione took a deep breath to stop herself going back to lecture him about how he was failing the human race: tonight of all nights, she was going to relax a bit. Maybe even let her hair down – she could always call in on Mr Jamieson for a bit; his customers were harmless, and they treated her like a surrogate daughter. Them she didn't mind, the ones who came in for an hour after work and then went home to their wives. It was the ones who let it take control when they had so much to live for. She swallowed, fighting against the lump in her throat and set off with purpose on the 20 minute walk to her flat.

After 5 minutes she gave up on the shoes and took them off, picking her steps carefully along the ground muttering insults to everyone from the creator of chewing gum to the man who decided the bin at the side of the street was his very own private urinal.

-----

Shivering, Ron drained the last dregs of his pint, handing it back over without a word. Not a patch on Firewhisky of course, but it was worth it for the silence. Not that the place was dead – Ron winced at his own bad choice of words – it was just that no-one was interested in him. No-one knew him. There wasn't some ministry idiot or well-meaning old tosser coming over every few minutes apologising for something they had no hand in. Merlin, he was fed up of 'sorry'. 'Sorry' was useless. 'Sorry' wasn't going to bring them ba-

_No._ Grunting at the barman, Ron gestured with his arm towards the glasses stacked up on the shelf, not trusting himself to speak. However the man seemed to understand perfectly, pulling him another pint without a word. Gratefully Ron swallowed half of it in a oner, and he felt the warm fuzzy feeling taking over his stomach again. Somehow, the drink made everything disappear, or at least seem like such a small worry. He felt good now, so why worry about later?

A draught from the door caused him to look up, and that was when he saw her. A woman, a muggle woman, had just walked in the door to the pub. She seemed very out of place in the dingy surroundings, a diamond in the rough. Ron grinned to himself: this was _just _the distraction he needed. He strained his ears to hear the conversation she was having with the barman, who had crossed to the door when he saw her.

"Alright Hermione?" he was saying. "What's the occasion that you've decided to face up to the horrors that lurk within my darkened little hellhole?" She laughed, lighting up her whole face. She had a nice laugh. Sort of… tinkly.

"Well you see Mr Jamieson, it happens to be my birthday, and I didn't really feel like going straight upstairs." Ahh, it was her birthday. How sweet. "I'll just have a quick drink to celebrate then off to bed I think."

"Well, have a seat then. Happy Birthday m'dear, and don't you worry, it's on the house. After all, you are my best tenant!"

To Ron's delight she headed right for him, sitting down just two stools along and with no-one between them. She really was beautiful – not conventionally pretty, but with the most amazing brown eyes and lovely dark curly hair. She turned round to look at him, and he was just wondering how it would feel to run his fingers through that hair when she interrupted his train of thought.

"Can I help you with something?" Oh Merlin, Ron thought, say something smart, say something really clever so she'll fall in love with you and you can go make lots of little Weasley babies.

"You have no shoes on." Well done, Weasley. Tremendous. Really witty, that was. And did he really just giggle?

"Excuse me?" She looked a little confused and he didn't think he was imagining that trace of annoyance that flitted across her features momentarily.

"Er, I mean, Happy Birthday!" He threw his arms into the air, probably just confirming her suspicions that he was a blithering idiot. A _drunken _blithering idiot.

"Em, thanks," she replied, starting to look a little edgy. Damn, there must be some way he could get this conversation to start going the way he wanted it to.

"So how old are you?"

"Don't you know you never ask a woman her age, boy?" a man called from a table behind them somewhere. Ron resented the intrusion and turned round to glare at him, only to find himself faced with a lot of drunk muggles sitting round the table nodding in agreement. This was not going well.

"Oh aye, son, that's rude that is!"

"Slap him round the head dear, go on!"

The girl turned back to Ron, blushing. Merlin, she was even prettier when she was embarrassed. He had to do _something_ so he didn't just look like some rude little schoolboy, because he wasn't that any more. He was a man.

"Er, you can hit me if you want," he ventured tentatively, turning his cheek towards her and raising his eyebrows, preparing himself for the blow. It was ironic – many girls had slapped him over the years and here he was inviting one to do it off his own back.

"Oh God, I couldn't do that!" She giggled nervously, and there was a groan from behind them as her protectors realised there wasn't going to be any reason to step in and turned back around. "And I'm twenty, by the way. I don't mind telling – I've nothing to hide!"

She smiled at him and Ron felt his insides melt. The effect of which happened to be a wave of nausea as the booze finally caught up with him, causing him to heave a little. Startled, the girl leaned away slightly before softening and touching his shoulder. It wasn't much, but the contact sent shivers up and down his spine. He flinched, and he saw her visibly withdraw herself from him.

"Sorry. I'm just a little bit drunk, you see!" What crap was he talking now? Oh please, somebody stop him. "Not quite recovered from last night either. Or the night before. Or the one before that. Or-"

"I see." Her voice had lost all it cheerfulness. Gone icy cold. Something was wrong. "Look, actually I'm just leaving…"

"No! Look, I'm sorry, please don't go-" He reached for her arm. Clearly, this was a mistake. She glared at him with fire in her eyes, and he felt something stir deep inside of him.

"Let. Me. Go." He felt a kind of extreme heat coming off her arm, and he yelped, jumping to his feet. He felt a little bit queasy. In fact, a lot bit queasy. Oh Merlin, he was going to-

And that was the moment Ron Weasley chose to throw up all over Hermione Granger's shoes. Luckily, she wasn't wearing them at the time. Unluckily, Ron immediately found himself sitting on a muggle pavement with a very sore arse after being forcibly ejected from the pub by a very irate Mr Jamieson and his band of not-so-little helpers.


	3. Monotony Interrupted

**Chapter 2 – Monotony Interrupted**

20th September 2000

Hermione woke up with a strong feeling of unease. Something wasn't right, something had happened… She sat up in bed, looking round about her to see if anything was out of place. Then she remembered. The red-haired boy. Man. She had- Oh, no. She groaned, sinking her head into her hands. What had she done? She had just gotten so angry, she hadn't been able to stop herself. She had seen the look on his face as he felt the burst of energy that exploded from her, throwing him off. He was scared – he thought she was a freak. She was.

She had tried so hard to put magic behind her, but magic refused to leave her alone. It was clear to her now that she couldn't keep on denying its presence in her, running through her very veins. It might not be logical, but it was real, and it was happening. But what could she do? She had turned her back on that world, on Hogwarts, so long ago, and it was too late to change her mind. That door was closed, and there was no option but to try not to let these strange powers take control of her. She couldn't help it though – sometimes they just didn't want to be suppressed. Sometimes people got in the way of her and they got burned.

Oh, God. What must he think of her? Not that she cared. He was just a complete idiot who thought he needed a drink or ten to have a good time. People like that disgusted her, they upset her and they made her remember things she wanted to forget. No, he wasn't worth wasting her thoughts on. But before things had gone wrong, it had felt… nice.

To have someone interested in her like that, as he so blatantly had been, was a concept that wasn't too familiar to her. Normally after she started one of her rants anyone who had been trying to get close wandered away, looking for an easier target. Someone who wouldn't challenge, who would just stand and look pretty. Which was something that had _definitely_ never been on Hermione's agenda!

No, this had been different. The way he had looked at her, it was as if she wasn't just a piece of meat he wanted to devour. It was as if he was really seeing _her,_ the person behind the stand-offishness and the clever façade that she had spent such a long time perfecting. He had ignored all that. He had looked at her… as if she _was_ someone. Someone worth getting to know.

Hermione shook herself, realising how ridiculous she was being. She sounded like some woman in one of those shoddily written romance novels her mother used to read on holidays abroad and cry over. She had looked at one once, when she was about eleven, and found it completely insulting to her intelligence. Her mother lapped it up though, saying she was too young to understand. Hermione had announced she never wanted to get old if it meant behaving as irrationally as the women in those books. Her mother had laughed, calling her a strange child. She supposed she still was.

There was a meow from the general direction of her bedroom door, and Hermione willed herself up onto her feet to walk over and let him in. "Hey, sweetie, how are you?" Her cat mewed in reply, rubbing up against her bare legs, tickling her. She mewed again, anxiously this time, walking towards the door and back again, and Hermione was in no doubt about what she wanted. "Ahh, hungry I take it! Let's go get some food then. I think the both of us need a little pick-me-up this morning." She followed her cat's running footsteps into the tiny kitchen, humming as she went. Anything to make herself feel better about the events of last night.

Sitting down to toast and fried egg while her now contented cat rolled about on the floor, Hermione had to admit she did feel a little less panicked about the situation. There was really nothing to worry about – there was no way that from one little incident the man would discover her secret. He was so drunk he probably didn't even remember her anyway. And, after all, she would never see him again. Theirs was just a chance meeting, which would never be repeated and probably be forgotten about in a few days at the most.

Hearing the noise at the door, Hermione got up from the table to go and get the post. She guessed there would be something from her mother – an apology for forgetting her birthday (again) and a grovelling letter promising to visit soon and have a real 'mother-daughter day'. She shuddered at the thought. Her father would not have written – he'd left a terse answer machine message the day before, saying the minimum amount of words he deemed suitable when he knew she'd be out at work. In a way it was easier to deal with him, because you always knew exactly what to expect. With her mother, there were always hopes just waiting to be destroyed yet again. She never learned.

She sighed, padding her way down the hall. Life was so predictable. You get up, you walk around a bit, you talk to a few people, you go to bed. Meaningless, dull. Nothing interesting, nothing different. She opened the door and the body that had been leaning against the other side fell towards her, knocking her over backwards.

-----

Never let it be said that Ron Weasley was a quitter. He had seen something he liked in that girl last night, and he damn sure wanted to find out what it was before he gave up altogether. Performing a quick sobering charm down an alley, he had re-arranged his clothes in an attempt to look as if he hadn't spent three hours killing time wandering the streets of London doing a muggle 'pub crawl'. He straightened up and headed towards the door of the flats above "Jamieson's Own", unlocking the door with a quick flick of his wand.

He trundled up the stairs, looking at the little pieces of paper beside the door announcing the names of the occupants. He cursed, realising he didn't have a clue what the girl's second name was, couldn't even remember her first name. He decided that when he saw it, he would know. Hopefully.

'Brown.' No, too boring.

'Kelly.' Nope, that was a man's writing, definitely.

'Namati.' Nope.

'Granger.' Ah, this was more like it. The looped writing, the style elaborate but at the same time entirely sensible. This was her. He could feel it.

He raised his hand to knock before realising she would probably be asleep. He didn't want to make things worse by making her even angrier. She might do, something, again. He would just sit on the doorstep and wait for morning. He was wide awake anyway…

-----

'Oh my God!' Hermione shrieked, scuttling backwards along the floor in a most un-Hermione like way she would later have to admit. But then she felt she had cause to behave irrationally in this situation – after all, it wasn't every day you opened your front door only to be knocked to the floor by what appeared to be a dead body. Although, on further inspection, it appeared that the dead body was in fact snoring. Loudly. Perhaps not quite dead then.

Nervously, Hermione crawled along the floor towards the slumped figure, which still hadn't moved an inch. In an instant she recognised him as the man from the bar the night before, and she felt her heart begin to hammer in her chest. What in the name of hell was _he _doing here? She didn't know, but she thought she could hazard a guess – he had felt it, that rush of power that had surged through her, he hadn't been too drunk to remember, and he had tracked her down. He knew. _He knew._ Hermione swallowed, feeling the panic threaten to engulf her. What was she going to do? How was she going to explain her way out of this?

She was distracted from the thoughts running on overtime through her head by a noise from the floor. He was waking up. Hermione found herself frozen in her crouched position about three feet from his head – though all she wanted was to get away from him, her limbs didn't seem to be co-ordinating with her brain. All she could do was watch as the stranger stretched his arms, his hands passing within an inch of her left foot, and put his hand to his head, groaning. He rolled over onto his side and opened his eyes – they were the brightest blue she thought she had ever seen on a man – and suddenly he seemed to realise that he was not where he expected to be, because in one strong movement he sprang to his feet, catlike, looking about wildly as his hand flew to the pocket of his jeans. Hermione couldn't help but let out a tiny gasp of surprise at the sudden movement, causing him to look down and see her for the first time. He crossed the floor towards her in a second, and she shrank away, but all he did was hold out his hand towards her.

"Hi," he said, a bemused grin spreading across his face as he withdrew his other hand from his pocket and ran it through his hair, "I'm Ron Weasley."


	4. Confrontation and Contemplation

**Chapter 3 – Confrontation and Contemplation**

Hermione took the offered hand, not really knowing what else to do, and he pulled her to her feet effortlessly.

"What…" Hermione trailed off, her brain still not quite having caught up with recent events. "How…"

"Oh, right," said Ron, looking sheepishly at the floor, "well, erm, sorry about that…" He gestured towards the open door, shuffling his feet. "I, erm, guess I owe you an explanation?"

Hermione tried to control herself, she really did. But she just couldn't help it - she exploded.

"_Excuse me?_" she screeched indignantly, dropping his hand that she realised with a jolt she had still been holding onto, "You're _sorry?_ After harassing me out of a bar on my birthday, following me home in the dead of night, breaking into my building, and, and... _loitering_ in my hallway with intent to do god-only-knows-what all you can offer is one pathetic little _sorry_?"

"It was only up a flight of stairs," mumbled Ron, the tips of his ears beginning to visibly turn red under his hair. "And it wasn't like I followed you, I just heard you talking to the guy behind the bar about being a tenant..."

"Oh, well that's reassuring," Hermione cried exasperatedly, throwing her hands in the air, "I'm so glad that rather than trailing me home like a crazed stalker, you listened into my private conversation with my landlord like a crazed stalker! One crime in place of another - how wonderful!"

"Look," said Ron, his voice louder now as he raised his chin and looked her in the eye, "all I wanted to do was apologise for being an complete arse to you last night, maybe give you a more accurate first impression-"

"Oh, I think I was _impressed_ enough last night," interrupted Hermione, her voice like ice. "I've seen enough people like you to know exactly what you're like, and exactly how to deal with you."

"People like me?" Ron said hotly. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"People who think it's fun to go out every night and get so completely drunk they can't even stagger back to their own house," Hermione spat, feeling herself getting worked up, "people who don't care who they hurt, who they insult, who they make cry, as long as the next drink still appears in front of them, people who'll who wake up not knowing what or who they did the night before, but what the hell, it's just your _life_, it's not like it's _worth_ anything!" She paused, taking in a breath through shaking lips, not noticing that she was not the only one trembling with rage in the room. "But you're the worst of the lot, because you - you don't even have the excuse of it just being a social thing. You go out, on your own, and your only aim is to get so pissed that you can't stand up without spewing all over the floor – well, what great goals you've set yourself!"

"Don't," said Ron, his voice shaking with unsuppressed anger. "Don't you _dare_ stand there and judge me."

"I'll do whatever the hell I like," Hermione said furiously, "and seeing as this is _my _house that you just barged into, I think I have every right to think whatever I want about you! And after all, if you're going to act like a 'complete arse', as you so eloquently put it, in a public place, then you are pretty much giving everyone the right to think exactly what they like about you – which from what I can see won't be worth very much."

"You don't know anything about me," Ron said quietly, in an eerily calm voice. "You don't know what I've been through, what I've done, what I've _had to do_. You have no idea."

"Oh well, _now_ I'm sorry," said Hermione sarcastically, "because you've clearly had such a hard life! Standing there in your _clean clothes _with your _new haircut_ and enough money in your pockets to buy at least 20 pints – how did you ever cope! Did mummy shout at you so you just had to get out of the house and drink yourself stupid? Did daddy give your baby sister more attention than you so you decided to hit the pub and drown your sorrows?"

"NO!" shouted Ron suddenly, in a voice that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him, and Hermione took a step back in fear as she noticed for the first time the fiery look in his eyes, the tension in every muscle of his face and the sheer strange _power_ that seemed to be radiating from his body. This wasn't normal – this man wasn't just some idiot drunk. But before she could follow this niggling feeling through to its logical conclusion, his voice interrupted her thoughts.

"You can't just stand there, and think you know everything about me," he was saying in steely tones. "You believe you're so intelligent – oh, I can tell – and yet you assume you know my entire life story based on what you _think_ you've deduced from my appearance. But you know nothing. You hear that – nothing!" His voice was shaking again, and Hermione thought she could see something glistening in those blue eyes, but it was gone almost instantly in a blaze of anger directed her way. She realised that even though she didn't have a clue what was going on here, she was in way over her head already. She needed to do what she almost never did, especially in an argument: she needed to retreat.

"Look, I'm sorry," she said slowly and calmly, the way she had been taught to talk down some of the more dangerous of the visitors to her office if they ever got themselves worked into a state. "I didn't mean to offend you. I shouldn't have judged you."

"Yeah, you did mean to actually, and no, you shouldn't have," Ron said disdainfully, "don't try any of that cycle-analysis muggle crap on me because it won't work, all right?"

"Okay," said Hermione, feeling riled, because she had been outsmarted by someone she had clearly under-estimated. "Well, if you want me to talk straight with you, maybe you could start by giving me an explanation as to why the hell you're here?"

"Forget it," Ron said, shrugging and beginning to back towards the door, "I thought… Never mind, all right? Just never mind." He turned to leave, and Hermione found herself taking steps forward and grabbing hold of his arm to stop him. For some reason she couldn't fathom, she didn't want him to just walk out of her life like this without at least understanding some of the reasoning behind his turning up.

"No," she said firmly, "you're not leaving till you tell me what you came here to say."

"Oh really?" said Ron dangerously, his right hand straying to his pocket again, "and how exactly do you think you're going to stop me? I came here of my own free will, and I'm leaving of it, right now."

"At least tell me one thing about yourself!" Hermione heard herself pleading, not understanding why – she had never been a begging kind of person. Ever.

"So now you want to know?" he snapped, spinning himself round to face her again. "All right, here's something, you'll love this – my best friend died two years ago, half of my family went with him, and I drink to forget, okay? How does that fit in with all your assumptions? What do you think of me now?" And with that he wrenched his arm out of her grip and ran out of the door, only pausing to slam it behind him.

Feeling numb, Hermione grabbed hold of the sideboard in an attempt to keep herself steady, but she found herself sinking to the floor for the second time that morning. She felt sickened, horrified at the way she had acted, at the self-righteous, spiteful monster she had become. But more than that, she felt the horrible realisation that she now knew what she had seen in the man that she could relate to, she knew the reason she had been drawn to him. It was grief she had seen in his eyes. It was loss.

-----

Cursing loudly to try to stop the tears falling from his eyes, Ron staggered down the stairs towards the exit. He needed to be outside, he needed fresh air, because the walls were closing in on him…

Stumbling out of the front door he found himself retching uncontrollably and it was pure acid he brought up, accompanied by a horrific burning sensation. But he didn't care, because the pain brought him back to reality, the pain almost stopped him remembering what had been, what might have been, what should have been. His life could have been so different, so easy – he slammed his hands over his ears to try to block out the memories, but he couldn't. He was forced to live through it, like he was always forced to, like he saw them every night when he fell asleep.

_Fred, motionless on the floor of that corridor, never to laugh or joke, to tease him, to make him ridiculously angry or make him laugh till his stomach hurt ever again._

_His mother, fallen in the final battle, sent sprawling across the Great Hall of Hogwarts by a curse that no-one was there to deflect while trying to stand guard over the body of her beloved son._

_Ginny. So small in death, still his baby sister to him even as she had been on the verge of becoming a woman. Never to become one. Cut down by Bellatrix Lestrange with the same curse that had claimed the life of Luna Lovegood._

_Percy – too cruelly snatched away from the family he had so recently rejoined, killed by Augustus Rookwood in his attempt to avenge his mother's death, the image of his broken body lying on the stone floor vivid in Ron's mind._

_And Harry. So close to the life he had always wanted, so near to freedom from the cursed existence he had been living all his life. Slain by the woman that Ron hated more than he could possibly explain, the woman for whom he believed torture was too little a punishment. Lestrange. _

_He would never forget the fleeting look of sheer exhilaration on his friend's face as Tom Riddle fell to the ground, only to be replaced by that shocked and wide-eyed stare as the jet of green light hit him from behind, that woman standing behind him. He had watched in horror as she dropped her wand and fell to the floor beside her master, weeping over his body, frozen to the spot as she was dragged away, kicking and screaming, to a cell buried in the depths of the ministry. _

_He hadn't moved even when his father came towards him, a broken man, weeping on his shoulder and asking him for help to move the bodies of his family, his friends. He had just stood there motionlessly, staring at the body of the one person who had accepted him, not because they shared blood, or because they knew his brothers or his parents, but because of himself. Harry Potter had known Ron for who he really was, and there was no-one who could understand how he felt. No-one. _

Breathing raggedly, Ron turned to face the brick wall of the building and held himself up against it, trying to control the sobs which threatened to wrack his body. It had been more than two years, and the images were as clear to him now as they had been on that day. They just refused to fade away. The drink blurred them at the edges, but they were still there, always there. Furious with himself for getting so worked up, he brought back his arm and sent his knuckles slamming into the concrete. Grunting, but relishing the pain, he drew back his hand and did it again. Yes – this was good. He kept on doing it, mechanically bringing his arm back and punching it forward, letting the pain wash over him, focusing on it, shutting everything else out. Feeling the blood stream down his knuckles and seeing it pool on the cold ground out of the corner of his eye only served to make him switch to the other hand. He just couldn't stop.

Startled by a noise coming from the street behind him suddenly, he jerked round, his hand flying to his wand, but it was only a cat. He looked down, and felt sick when he saw what he had done to himself. Most of the flesh was torn away from his knuckles, the white bone of one of his fingers exposed to the unforgiving morning air as it whipped around him. He felt faint – this was going to require more complex healing charms than anything else he had done. But he would do it himself, like he always had. One rule, and only one: nothing that could make its way back to his father's ears. Merlin knew he had enough to deal with.

Trying his best to clear his mind, he turned slowly on the spot, and the sickening squeezing of Apparition took hold of him. When he opened his eyes again he was in a small, dimly lit room, furnished only by a second-hand and shoddy-looking chair with a dull throw over it and an old muggle TV propped up on a cardboard box. Home, sweet home.

Sinking into the chair, Ron pulled out his wand and began prodding at the open flesh wounds on his left hand, sewing them back together with a mixture of whispered and complicated spells. He winced in pain, but though there was a miniature of Firewhisky on the kitchen shelf he didn't go through to get it, despite being sorely tempted. Somewhere between last night and this morning, he had decided that the alcohol wasn't helping, and that he needed to quit before he did himself any more damage than he already had. That girl had been right about something at least.

_Her. _She had got under his skin, that much was clear to him. He hadn't deliberately hurt himself like this for a long time. What she had said had hit a nerve, true, but it was more than that. When he had seen her last night it was as if he had met her before, almost like he had always known her. He had felt more wounded by her barbed comments than he had by those of anyone else, even his own remaining family members. There was just something about her. He thought back, trying to pinpoint the moment that he had decided that he wasn't going to give up on this one, that there was something special about her. Everything was a little hazy because of the amount he had had to drink – the sobering charm didn't bring back lost memories, after all – but he could remember that everything had been going all right, and then he had said something that made her turn cold. He had reached for her arm to try to reassure her that he didn't mean any harm and then-

Ron sat bolt upright in his chair, ignoring the spark that flew from the end of his wand and grazed his still wounded left knuckle. The heat that had come from her, burning his hand; he hadn't recognised it in his intoxicated state, but now his mind was clearer he knew that he remembered it for what it was. Magic. Pure magic, like the kind of uncontrollable surge of power that he had experienced as a young boy, the kind that had yet to be mastered.

She was a witch.

**A/N: Sorry about the wait, but as you can see, it was a longer chapter than usual. Had to be to get everything in that needed to be really. Ever so slightly angsty, but it needs to be to enable good character development for the rest of the plot. If it's not to your tastes, I apologise!**


	5. Tracking Her Down

**Chapter 4 – Tracking Her Down**

28th September 2000

Standing across the road from Baker & Brown's Legal Office and trying to surreptitiously peer in through the window, Ron had to admit to himself that he honestly didn't know why he was there. As a general rule, he didn't really tend to stalk people; although, he thought, as a dry smile crossed his lips, there appeared to be a slight build-up of evidence to the contrary recently. He couldn't help feeling somewhat pleased with himself for getting there though – it had been a difficult task and the fact that it had taken him little over a week to track down the elusive Miss Granger was, he thought modestly, to his credit.

-

Initially he had thought that finding her would be relatively easy. After all, every child with magical ability born within the United Kingdom, or one who is brought into the country by parents while still under the age of ten, was automatically registered on the Hogwarts Roll, and not removed even if they attended any of the other schools of magic across the globe. All it really took to get access to this was a good relationship the teacher in charge of Admissions, and luckily Ron's relationship with his ex-transfiguration professor had improved considerably since his schooldays. It hadn't taken much persuading to let him view the very large, dusty tome, and all he had to endure in return was a half-hour conversation with Minerva McGonagall about the unfairness of life and the cruelty of fate in leaving him effectively without any real family. But that was all right. He was more than used to these inspiring little pep talks – indeed, they were one of the reasons he had 'hit the bottle' in the first place. Perhaps if that little discussion had happened a few days previously it would have led to a week of barely-recalled memories and anonymous bruises, but luckily he had found a more creative and slightly less neanderthal way of making himself feel better now. That was, throwing himself into finding the girl who was the cause of this epiphany.

A few hours later though, he had found himself tempted to jack it in and head over to Hogsmeade and the welcoming sight of Madam Rosmerta behind the bar of the Three Broomsticks. He could find nothing – nada, zip, zilch. No mention that any girl with the surname Granger had been born in the same year as him, the year before or the year after. He had even tried looking as far back as five years before his own birth, in case she had been lying about her age, but he could find nothing there either. Unless she had been lying about something slightly more significant than her age, and was in fact the 'Thomas Granger' who had come to Hogwarts four years before Ron. But somehow he doubted it.

Frustrated beyond belief, he had dragged himself out of McGonagall's chair, rubbed his eyes in order to get rid of the blurring and scuffed his way moodily along the dark corridor to the staff room. He had been lucky enough to only encounter one pupil along the way; a first year by the looks of it. The tiny boy had looked up as he walked towards him and Ron had heard the intake of breath as the red hair registered. The customary 'Oh Merlin, it's a Weasley, we should bow our heads solemnly and just be glad it didn't happen to our family' hush followed, thought Ron had to admit that the first year did at least manage it with a bit of grace and dignity. Some people, ministry personnel being generally the most common offenders, bowed their heads so far in their attempt to avoid the eyes of the passing redhead that they ended up overbalancing and tripping over their own feet. Ron liked to think of these moments every time someone new performed the charade in his view, because sometimes the funny things made it a little easier to deal with the faux-sentimental crap that everyone else dished out. He didn't think he would ever get used to it.

Coughing slightly and cursing the lump that had appeared from nowhere in his throat, Ron had straightened himself up and knocked on the door of staff lounge, only to be told by Professor Flitwick that McGonagall had disappeared. Called away on urgent business to the ministry – just his luck, he thought sourly. The ministry seemed to be at the tail end of every bad thing that happened to him somehow and he was still harbouring slight bitter feelings towards them, to put it lightly. Grumbling, he had headed back towards McGonagall's office, thinking that he should at least tidy up what he had started.

Seeing the book, he had decided to have another quick skim in case he had missed anything, although he knew he hadn't. Opening the book to a random page, however, caused him to inhale sharply. There it was, in black and white. _Molly Prewett_. His mother. Just below that, _Arthur Weasley_. And then, further down, he saw those familiar names. _Lily Evans. James Potter._ Harry's parents. His parents. Three dead, the other as good as. He had thought it was bad seeing his brothers', Ginny's, _Harry'_s names in the more recent pages, but he had prepared himself in advance for that. Somehow, a part of him had forgotten that his parents had ever attended Hogwarts. Somehow, a part of him had forgotten that their legacy was here, in this volume that would live on while everyone around grew old and were gone, and that part of him was thrown at the clear proof of their existence in front of him. He knew it was awful, but he tried as hard as he could never to think of his mother, to avoid all that reminded him of her, even if that included his father, because it was simply too hard.

Swallowing hard, he had backed away from the desk, wrenching his eyes away from the open book and grabbing a messy handful of floo powder from the fireplace before stepping into the barely green flames. He didn't know how he had actually managed to stammer out his home address, but by some miracle he was within seconds in a messy heap on his living room floor, shaking like he would never be able to stop.

-

Standing in the chill morning air, Ron shuddered at the memory. As much as he sometimes liked to try and kid himself that he was moving past what had happened, it never took much to send him right back to the state he had been in the very morning after the defeat of the most evil wizard of all time. Still, this wasn't the time to be thinking of the past. Right now he was more interested in the mysterious woman who was hidden somewhere within the walls of that building. He crossed the road, taking great care to check both ways for cars: he had once made the mistake of assuming that muggle cars, like their magically adapted counterparts, would dodge round pedestrians without any difficulty, and would not be making it again in a hurry.

Coming up to the wooden door, he noticed that although it looked weakened and there were marks from obvious repairs around the frame, there was a very large and impressive looking metal Yale lock under the handle. Clearly this place was used to attempted break-ins, and catching sight of the notice in the blackened window Ron realised why.

'Baker & Brown's Legal Office

Offering legal help and advice at low rates to those who have been turned down elsewhere. Specialists in homeless and employment law. We help get YOU back on your feet.'

-

It was thanks to his father that he had figured it out in the end. Ron had been making his once a week obligatory visit to the Burrow, though after his breakdown two days before he had actually considered not going. As always he had ended up making himself do what he thought was his duty: it seemed to him that he was too often having to force himself to visit those he had once considered himself close to. There were some visits he would rather not have to face up to at all – not that he considered his father among those. It wasn't the man himself, but the memories that being in his childhood home brought back for Ron.

Anyway, having arrived, Ron had realised, as he always did, that it wasn't going to be as difficult as he had thought. Arthur Weasley was always delighted to be visited by any of his remaining children, as he had once confided to Ron that the house seemed dead and empty with only him in it. Confused, Ron had asked why he stayed.

"Because I couldn't stand to move," his father had said, eyes misting over slightly. "It would mean letting them go, son, and I couldn't do that. Not yet." Ron couldn't understand this, not when he was devoting almost all his time to _trying_ to forget. A part of him, the rational part, knew that somewhere between these two extremes was the right way to move on, but the rest of him wasn't ready to listen just yet.

The two of them had made the pretence of having a simple conversation, glossing over the stilted pauses whenever they came close to saying anything of any real value, and to the outsider it might well have seemed like a normal father-son discussion. And why wouldn't it – they were well practised by now, after all.

Ron had ended up in a round-about sort of way telling his dad about his recent visit to Hogwarts, though not the particular circumstances about why he was there, or in what state he had left. He simply told his dad he had gotten talking to someone he assumed was a muggle, come to the conclusion that they were actually of magical origin and had been trying to track them down. His dad was very interested in this and seemed eager to help, though Ron suspected that this was due to him finally, for the first time in two years, showing true enthusiasm for something. No matter – it was nice to feel like he had someone on his side, whatever the motivations behind it.

Mr Weasley had practically jumped from his seat, leaving Ron seated bewildered at the table. He heard his father raiding what sounded like all the bookshelves in the house, till he found a very old, very battered copy of 'Hogwarts: A History'. Brushing the dust from its cover, he carried it back downstairs reverently and placed it down before Ron.

"This," he said importantly, "was your grandfather, Septimus Weasley's. My father. I'm sorry you never met him – you would have got on well." Arthur smiled at his son, eyes twinkling. "A most brilliant chess player, you might be interested to know."

"But with bad taste in books," Ron said jokingly, wrinkling his nose up in mock disgust. "What is this thing, anyway?"

"You mean you never read this at school?" asked his father incredulously. "Why, back in my day it was compulsory!"

"Well," Ron said, "_I've_ never seen it before in my life."

"You should give it a go," his father suggested lightly, "it's actually not that bad. Not ever one of the ones they had to force me to read, if I recall. Now, 'A History of Magic'; _that _was dull." Ron flopped forwards onto his arms and began to heave huge fake snores, causing his father to chuckle heartily. He rose, grinning – he loved to make his dad laugh, though it didn't happen very often any more.

"Thanks dad," he said, trying to sound convincingly grateful, "but no thanks. My reading days are over!" He paused, thinking carefully. "Actually, I don't think I they really started in the first place…"

"How you achieved so many OWLs I'll never know!" said his father, winking so that Ron knew he was just teasing. "Third highest in the family – though I still maintain if she had only worked, Ginny would have-" His voice faltered suddenly, and Ron felt his stomach lurch in that way it always did when his baby sister was mentioned, even by members of his family. He stared resolutely at the floor, and there was a long and weighted silence.

"Ron," said his father suddenly, pleadingly, stretching out his hands across the table to his son, "we can't just close our eyes to this. Every time one of us says something that reminds us of them, we can't just pretend it didn't happen! I worry about you. Every day." Finally Ron lifted his eyes towards his father, and saw the hurt etched across his face. Forcing himself to ignore it, ignore the dull pain in his heart, he pulled his hands away and shoved them in his pockets.

"So," he said, plastering a false smile across his face, "what does this book have to say about Magical Registration then?" Arthur sighed heavily, and Ron could see him giving up even as he tried to hide it. Though they had gone through this a thousand times before, it still killed him to know the hurt he was causing his father.

"Well," he said slowly, "I don't know exactly. Why don't you have a look while I go and put the kettle on?" He pushed his chair back and walked through to the kitchen. Ron didn't bother to mention the fact that he had only boiled the kettle fifteen minutes ago, because he knew that his father just wanted an excuse to leave the room. Taking a deep breath to try and calm himself a little, he reached out and pulled the book across the table towards him.

By the time his father returned ten minutes later, Ron was actually so deeply immersed in the content of the great volume that he didn't hear him coming. He jumped as Arthur reached over him to place the steaming mug on the table, and his father laughed loudly at the indignant look on his son's face.

"Sorry," he said unconvincingly, a fleeting smile still on his face, "I just couldn't help it – you were so absorbed, I wanted to see if I could get a reaction."

"Wanted to scare the wits out of me, more like," Ron grumbled, but he was pleased to see that his father was at least acting like his old self again. "Anyway, I've found the bit about the Hogwarts Roll – it just says what you said. I can't see why anyone wouldn't be registered, the system seems foolproof."

"Maybe," his father suggested gently, "you just made a mistake?"

"No," said Ron firmly, "I'm sure of it."

"Well," said Arthur, sinking into the chair opposite him, "then I don't know. I mean, once someone is born with magic in their veins, they are forever tied to the magical world. They can't just sever ties with it." And with that, suddenly something clicked into place in Ron's head.

"But what if they could," he said slowly. "What if they chose to? What would happen?"

"I- I don't know," said his father, "I've never thought about it. But – why would someone do that?"

"Well," Ron said, thinking, "a muggle-born wouldn't really know much about our world, right? They wouldn't know that it would probably be impossible for them to live as normal muggles without being able to control their powers. So, I suppose, maybe their parents don't want them to go, maybe they already had something planned, and they just decide that a life with magic in it is not what they want." Ron shuddered – he couldn't imagine life without magic. It just wasn't a possibility to him.

"I think you might be on to something there," Arthur said, a smile spreading across his face again. "I've never even thought of that, but I suppose it wouldn't be publicised if it did happen. And their name wouldn't be registered because it would be removed after they rejected their place – according to magical law, they couldn't keep it."

"It all fits!" said Ron excitedly, "And McGonagall would know, wouldn't she?"

"I would imagine so," said his father, "I suppose she would be the one in charge of adjusting the Roll and such." Ron's gaze flicked towards the fireplace – he was itching to find out, right now.

"Dad," he said slowly, "would you mind if I-"

"Go," said Arthur, laughing at the look on his son's face, "I don't mind. Just let me know what happens, all right?"

"Sure thing, dad," said Ron gratefully, standing up and heading towards the fire.

-

It hadn't taken long for McGonagall to divulge the whole story, with a little persuasion of course. She had told him all about her discussion with Hermione Granger (Ron was amazed she still remembered the girl's name after all that time) and her parents, and how she had resolutely refused her place at Hogwarts, or any other magical school for that matter. The girl had informed Professor McGonagall that she was planning on going to a place called Fettes College, and that she wanted to become a lawyer. One other detail also stuck out – the girl had refused to believe that magic was real. This had left Ron flabbergasted, but McGonagall swore it was true. No matter what complex magic the professor had performed, Hermione maintained that it wasn't logical and that she didn't believe it.

Ron puzzled over this for the next few days, sitting in muggle internet cafes mindlessly looking up information on Fettes online. He couldn't understand how anyone who possessed the power to perform magic could just pretend that it wasn't real, could deny themselves in that way. He couldn't even consider it – it would kill him.

Simply surfing the internet legally hadn't produced many results, so Ron had used a trick he had learned from George, who kept an eye on all things muggle so that his patents were truly original and indeed truly magic. A simple 'Alohamora' opened up a whole new world of possibilities – Ron suddenly had all the information in the world at his fingertips, from the criminal record of anyone in Britain to the power to detonate any number of small nuclear bombs. As he always did, he said a silent prayer that no-one would ever learn this skill and use it for evil. However, most wizards didn't learn to work muggle devices like computers, so he figured it was probably safe.

From his research, Ron discovered that a Hermione Granger had indeed studied at Fettes College from 1991 to 1997, and was accepted a year early to Oxford University to study law in 1998, something that was apparently very rare. But here was where things became odd – she had dropped out of university in the first term of her second year. Confused, Ron's first thought had been that she'd changed her mind about becoming a lawyer, but there were no mentions of her ever attending another university. It was only when he double-checked the scan of the form she had handed in to announce her wish to be removed from the course that he saw it at the bottom. In writing that clearly wasn't hers – perhaps a teacher's – was written 'Apprenticeship arranged with Baker & Brown's.'

-

Which was how he had ended up here. It hadn't been easy but he'd done it, and he also hadn't let a drop of drink touch his lips since the night he had met Hermione. Even if this went drastically wrong, he knew that this was one good thing to come out of it. He looked up the building in front of him: the brick walls and broken windows didn't exactly inspire hope in him.

Obviously the clientele at this place were not exactly the most savoury characters, and the locality was unenviable – there were some places in London that it was just stupid to visit after dark. However Ron had to admire the work that this place, and in turn the woman, were doing. They were offering aid to people who would otherwise receive none; those that society had turned their backs on. He liked that, though he could see how it might gain them enemies.

Taking a deep breath and feeling suddenly nervous for a reason that he couldn't quite put his finger on, Ron reached his hand up towards the bell, pressed it quickly and dropped his arm back to his side. It seemed to take an age before he heard movement from beyond the wall, and even longer for the person behind to open it. He felt himself exhale the breath he hadn't known he was taking – it wasn't her.

"Er, may I help you?" the middle-aged man asked after an awkward pause.

"Oh, right!" said Ron quickly, feeling his ears begin to heat up in embarrassment, "I was just looking for… I mean, I was wondering…"

"Yes?" the man prompted, a slightly bemused smile on his face. Ron felt furious at himself – how was it that he could face up to ten death eaters at once, but when it came to a normal conversation he completely lost his head? He coughed loudly, clearing his throat and trying to compose himself.

"I was wondering," he managed to say almost without wavering, "if a Miss Granger worked here?"

**A/N: This took a while due to other commitments etc, and I apologise! Anyway, it is at least a long one, and I hope it's maybe given you some things to think about before the next update…**


	6. Decisions, Past and Present

**Chapter 5 – Decisions, Past and Present**

'On the 5th June 2000 it is alleged that Miss Ebony Sparks, hereafter referred to as the defendant, did break into the residence of Mrs Anne-Marie Sparks, hereafter referred to as the plaintiff, with the intent to commit the theft of several items of significant monetary value, namely a bronze statuette worth around £2000 on today's market. It is also alleged that upon being disturbed in her attempt to steal said statuette, the defendant did brutally attack the plaintiff using the statuette as a weapon, before escaping with around £350 in cash…'

Eyes a blur as they raked across the page, Hermione was engrossed in the papers before her. A mother charging her daughter with robbery and ABH really dragged you away from your own problems. Sure, she had issues with her mother and the company she kept, but somehow she doubted it would ever come to blows. However, she also doubted that she would ever have to resort to such extreme measures to get money – Ebony was a known drug-user who had been introduced to crack cocaine by an ex-boyfriend and had struggled to find other ways to feed her habit than theft. The aging and irritable Mrs Sparks was livid, having thrown Ebony out of the house at sixteen never expecting to see her again, so was aiming to get her daughter the maximum time in jail possible. Ebony had come to Baker & Brown's desperate, as so many of their clients were, for advice on what to do to get clean before her trial and where to get free legal representation only to be offered free representation from the firm themselves. With the condition that she enter rehabilitation facilities of course – that was always the condition they put on new clients. Hermione smiled as she began to type up her response to the court summons: she really was extremely lucky to have ended up there at all.

After she had dropped out of university, she had not expected anyone to offer her any kind of job relating to a career in law at all, despite the mitigating circumstances and the glowing references she carried with her from her original placement. But then a lecturer at Oxford who had been quite fond of her had mentioned that a well-established and prestigious law firm was starting up a public interest branch in London due to a large trust fund they had recently been awarded. The conditions on the use of the fund stipulated that it must be used to help those in need and without sufficient money of their own, and Hermione's lecturer had heard on the grapevine they were looking for staff. Unqualified as she had been, she had thought she would only stand a chance at perhaps achieving the advertised receptionist's job, but at the time she was so intrigued by the aims of this new legal office that she went to the interview anyway. Apparently she had communicated this interest well enough to her interviewers, because to her shock after a quick consultation with his partner the elderly man opposite her had smiled and asked if she was interested in a job as a paralegal, or legal assistant, for the firm. He told her this was with the view to her attending night classes at her own discretion to complete her degree before becoming a fully-registered lawyer at Baker & Brown's. That was what this place was about – second chances for people who were willing to seek them, and that was what Hermione loved about it. She had a job where she did something she felt really passionate about, and she really was doing something worthwhile.

Still, she couldn't help the part of her stomach that jarred slightly whenever she signed off the end of a letter or a brief, as she was doing now. _Hermione Granger, Legal Assistant_. All modesty aside, the logical side of her knew that if she had completed her degree there would have been nothing stopping her rising to the top of the legal profession, doing things she could only dream of doing now. But the past was past; things had happened, she had made her choices, and now she would have to live with them.

The knock on the door brought her out of her reverie, and she looked up in surprise. She had a tendency to focus so intently on her work that she was often oblivious to anything around her, and she wondered embarrassedly if she had kept whoever was outside waiting.

"Come in," she said distractedly, looking about on her desk for the slip of paper that she had to attach to the top of the letter. She knew it was there somewhere…

"Ah, Miss Granger? You have a visitor." John's voice came from the direction of the door, and she looked up. She inhaled sharply as she realised who it was.

"Ron!" she said in surprise, then cursed herself inwardly for revealing the fact that she had committed his name to memory.

"So you do know him!" the caretaker said with a smile, taking in the Ron's palpable relief at her recognition of him. "I'm sorry to say sir, I wasn't quite convinced – you didn't seem very certain that she was expecting you." Hermione noticed that Ron seemed quite perturbed by being referred to as 'sir'.

"Yes, er," Ron stuttered, "I wasn't really sure if she'd be all that pleased to see me, to be honest."

"You can go now, John," Hermione said quickly, well aware that while the caretaker was a very kind and thoughtful man, when it came to office gossip his jaw was as loose as many a defence lawyer's morals. She didn't need it broadcasted around the building that she was being visited by strange red-headed men who weren't sure if they would be welcome or not – that wouldn't look good at all.

"Right you are, Hermione," John said as he backed out of the door, giving her a hearty wink as he closed it behind him. Hermione breathed a heavy sigh and slumped back in her chair, trying to get over her shock at the sudden appearance of the man she had spent much of the last week trying to erase from her brain. She looked up after a minute or so to see that he was still standing next to the door, awkwardly shuffling his feet. It irritated her to realise that somehow she found this boyish behaviour slightly endearing.

"Sit down," she said. Though she tried to sound as if it was a gentle request it came out as a command and Ron followed it as such, walking quickly and abruptly over to the chair opposite her and sitting. She made a conscious effort to try and calm herself down, because she realised she was behaving like an uptight control freak. Which she was _not. _"Sorry about John, he's a bit of a… character."

"Yeah, I noticed," Ron said tightly, though she thought she saw his mouth turn up a little at the corners.

"Well…" Hermione started, before realising that she was completely lost for words. And that just didn't happen to her.

"Look," Ron said hurriedly, "I don't really know why I'm here, other than to apologise for turning up at your house like that. It was a crazy, impulsive thing to do, kind of like this was actually, and I'm sorry for scaring you and for blowing up at you like that and-"

"I'm sorry too," Hermione interrupted, sensing his discomfort, "I shouldn't have made judgements about you when I didn't know you, I should have known better. Especially in the line of work that I do."

"It's all right," Ron said, dismissing her apology with a wave of his hand, "you were right, really. About a lot of things. And, if you're interested, I haven't had a drink since the last time we, eh, _spoke_."

"Honestly?" Hermione said admiringly, feeling the swooping in her stomach that she always got when lifestyle advice she gave someone actually sunk in. She always felt so amazed that she could have a real hand in getting someone's life back on track.

"Honestly," he said with a smile, though it didn't quite meet his eyes, she noticed. It wasn't like he was lying, she had the feeling she would be able to tell that immediately somehow, but more like he wasn't telling her something. Something important. She decided to ignore it.

"Well, congratulations," she said, "I'm glad I could help. And I'll accept your apology, if you accept mine?"

"Sure," Ron said, nodding enthusiastically, and Hermione smiled inwardly at the slightly boyish gesture.

"Em," she said, "not to be rude, but was there something else you came for?"

"Well, actually," Ron stammered, a blush beginning to spread from his ears and around to his cheeks, "I was wondering if you might like to maybe, just possibly, give me a second chance and let me take you out to lunch? Or dinner, whatever you prefer." He paused, avoiding her eyes. "Don't feel like you have to say yes, I'll understand if you wouldn't want to…"

Hermione smiled reassuringly at him, though inwardly she was in turmoil. She could scarcely line up this slightly awkward, sweet man with either the intoxicated man with the intense gaze she had met in the bar or the frightening, fiery ball of rage she had seen a week previously. It seemed there were many parts to this Ron, and that perhaps she had only had a glimpse of a few of them. She was wary – clearly there was a lot going on in his life, and he had not recovered from something serious in his past. Her experience told her that it would be unwise to get to know him further, but for some reason her heart was telling her to give him a chance. And that scared her.

"All right," she heard herself say, though she couldn't remember actually coming to a conscious decision. "I suppose that would be okay." He looked up and met her brown eyes with those piercing blue ones, and gave her such a dazzling smile that somehow all her fears and worries just ceased to exist.

**A/N: A little earlier than usual – normal updates will probably be on a Friday, but as I'm home ill I figured I may as well do something productive! Please R&R to let me know what things you liked or didn't like so I can work on them :)**


	7. A Different Kind Of Magic

**Chapter 6 – A Different Kind Of Magic**

1st October 2000 

Sitting at a table for two in a small café in the centre of London, Ron had to admit that he felt a little guilty for inviting this woman on what could only be called a date without the best of intentions. But not nearly guilty enough to let her know his real motivation. Besides, before he had known the truth about her, had he not wanted to ask her out anyway? The new information he had gained had just… peaked his curiosity, that was all.

However in the last half an hour he hadn't really learned very much more about Hermione's involvement – or rather, non-involvement – with the magical world. Not that they hadn't talked: in actual fact the conversation had flowed, which was something Ron found he had grown disturbingly unaccustomed to. Though Hermione had tactfully not mentioned any of the more distressing aspects of his past he had brought up in their shouting match the week before, she hadn't glossed over it the sickeningly obvious way that most people did. They simply talked about everything else – their likes, dislikes, living in London, working in London (he had had to use a bit of poetic licence when describing his job as a muggle bank clerk), being in a generation where everyone assumed you were useless, that sort of thing. And she almost managed to hide the fact that she was skirting around certain key issues. She hid it so well, in fact, that Ron thought if he wasn't constantly on alert for the mannerisms that told him a person wasn't being honest, he might not even have noticed she _was _avoiding the subject of any of their previous meetings. But notice he did.

He wondered if she suspected that he knew about her. She couldn't know that he did for sure – after all, she had no idea of his own connection to the magical world. He smiled to himself bitterly, thinking how refreshing it was to be able to talk to someone who didn't instantly pity you because of the colour of your hair, or your family name. But if she didn't know about him – and why should she? – then she had no real cause for suspicion, and he was sure that a part of her _was_ wary about telling him certain things. Perhaps she was just naturally an overly-cautious person. He supposed you would have to be if you spent your whole life trying to hide what you truly were both from yourself and the people around you.

"Penny for them." The voice broke into his thoughts and he blushed involuntarily as he looked up, realising that Hermione had returned from the bathroom, pulled back her chair and sat back down opposite him without him even noticing.

"What?" he asked, both embarrassed and a little confused. He knew that pennies were those stupid little copper coins that muggles used to make up ponds – no, _powunds_ – but he couldn't understand what she was offering him money for.

"Penny for your thoughts," Hermione said, smiling. "You looked as though you were miles away."

"I wasn't," said Ron, bewildered, "I was right here."

Now Hermione looked confused, but Ron didn't understand; _she_ was the one saying ridiculous things. Unless… Oh no. Was this her telling him that she knew he was a wizard? That he could Apparate instantly to somewhere miles away? Remove thoughts from his own head with his wand to put into a pensieve? "N-not that I could be anywhere else!" he blustered, beginning to panic slightly. "I mean, you've only been gone five minutes, and I'd have to get the tube or a bus to get that far away so quickly, wouldn't I?"

"I…" Hermione trailed off, and from the way she was staring at him he knew he had done something wrong again. "Are you making fun of me?" she asked suddenly, a slight edge to her voice.

"No," said Ron warily, wondering if this woman was a little bit unbalanced after all, "but you weren't making any sense. How could I give you my thoughts? I mean, there's no mug… _normal_ way to do that." He cursed himself mentally – that would have been the second time he said muggle in front of her. The chances of her picking up on the reference were small, but he didn't want to risk it a third time.

"Are you being serious?" Hermione was looking at him incredulously, and he felt himself redden even further under her penetrating gaze. She was clearly trying to figure out if he was deliberately mocking her, but he still couldn't understand what he had said wrong.

"Are _you_?" he countered, going on the defensive because it seemed the safest option in the circumstances, "I mean, it's not like…" Oh, what the hell, he thought, "It's not like there's any such thing as magic, or anything!"

If he had had any doubts about his theory before, they were quashed once he uttered those words. A tiny unconscious flicker crossed Hermione's face, invisible to anyone who wasn't watching closely, and she let out a short, forced laugh.

"No," she said, shaking her head a little too hard to be genuine, "of course not. But I mean… It's just a figure of speech. You know – penny for your thoughts? As in, you looked as though you were off in a world of your own?"

Something clunked into place in Ron's head, and he groaned inwardly. In his mind's eye he could see his dad waving a copy of 'When It's Raining Cats and Dogs – Common Muggle Phrases for Wizards in the Know' at him, saying "You never know when it might come in handy, son!". Suddenly he wished he'd paid more attention to what he'd seen as his father's ridiculous attempt to educate him about muggles when he'd had the chance.

"Um, yes" he stammered, feeling himself going a ridiculous shade of scarlet, "of course I knew that. I was just… er…" He searched his mind frantically for something intelligent to say, knowing that no matter how hard he tried he was going to come off sounding like an idiot no matter what. _Again. _What was it about this girl?

"Never mind," said Hermione bracingly, though she was still looking at him with a rather curious expression on her face. "It's not important, anyway."

"I'm sorry," he said a little hesitantly, desperately trying not to make another excruciating faux pas, "I'm just a little nervous." He smiled across the table at her hopefully, wondering why it was that the intellectual part of his brain could come up with phrases like 'excruciating faux pas' but seemed so reluctant to let his mouth actually say them. However, she seemed to melt a little at his woefully pathetic apology; at any rate, she smiled back at him.

"It's quite all right," she said kindly. "Truth be told, I'm a little nervous myself. I haven't really had a proper conversation with someone my own age who wasn't a client for… well, for a long time."

"Me neither," said Ron wonderingly, forgetting his embarrassment for a minute. The look on her face was so familiar to him – that painful, self-deprecating smile that was a part of him now. "I haven't talked to someone like this in months, actually."

"Really?" she asked, looking puzzled. "You don't seem like… I mean, it seems like you're the kind of person who could talk to just about anyone really easily."

"No," Ron lied, "that's never really been me, to be honest." Well, it had been once, but that had been a long time ago. He was different now.

"Oh," said Hermione, looking a little melancholy. "Well, I've never been able to do that either – I make a terrible first impression, you see."

"No you don't," Ron said quickly. If there was one thing that didn't agree with him more so than someone insulting one of the people close to him, it was someone insulting themselves. Only he was allowed to do that, after all.

"I do," Hermione said, looking down at the table, "I always have. I never seem to know when to hold back, and it makes me come across as… Well, I don't know. Arrogant. Self-absorbed. Patronising. A know-it-all."

"Hey," Ron said gently, reaching his hand across the table to her. "Don't say things like that. If it makes a difference, you never came across that way to me."

"Yeah, I'm sure," said Hermione sarcastically, but she did at least look up at him again.

"You didn't," he said insistently, "not at all. I thought you were sweet, and charming, and ridiculously gorgeous of course." He grinned jokingly at her, and she gave a half-hearted smile. "Honestly." He could actually see the effect that his words were having on her, seeming to light her up from the inside. It was… remarkable. He wasn't used to his words having such a strong effect on another human being.

"Was that before or after I had you thrown out of the bar?" she said wickedly, suddenly smirking at him like a cat that had got the cream (of course that was the one phrase he remembered from that stupid book). Ron was delighted by the fact that he seemed to have got over at least one hurdle – this was her first mention of their previous meeting.

"Oh before, definitely," Ron said, trying to keep a straight face: however soon they both succumbed to the laughter that appeared to have crept up on them from nowhere.

At the same time, they realised that their hands were now touching on top of the table. Simultaneously they looked down and then back up at each other, and Ron felt a little jolt of something like electricity go through his body as she met his eyes. But this was a different kind of magic. His stomach gave an involuntary twist, and he realised that though he had made a little progress today he had also discovered a major obstacle in his path. He was going have to work hard if he wanted to find out the truth about Hermione Granger before he let himself get too close and had to cut her out of his life.

--------

Truth be told, Hermione was feeling a little bit out of her depth. For so long she had succeeded in keeping her guard up around people, never letting anyone get too close, even her own parents. Especially her own parents. She had only let her guard down with one person, and the result of that… _experiment_ had led her to believe that getting close to someone was tantamount to signing up for unbearable and never-ending hurt. What sort of sensible person would volunteer for that? And if she was anything, Hermione was sensible. But now those barriers that she had built, the citadel walls that she had thought was so strong, were being demolished from the foundations like so much rice paper by this one man. And for the life of her, she couldn't figure out why.

There was something altogether… different about him. He was like no-one else she had ever known, and she was able to relate to him more than she liked to admit. He was hiding something too, she was sure of it. Of course, Hermione's ever analytical mind had processed the fact that he wasn't too hard on the eye either, and that this might have something to do with her growing fascination with him. But she didn't think that was the only reason she couldn't stop thinking about him. Ron Weasley. Even his name was unusual, somehow sounding foreign but at the same undeniably British. Yes, there was something about him that sparked her interest, that made her want to get to know him.

Although, she told herself sternly, she did already know some things about him. He had been through a recent trauma, and was clearly not over it. He had a quick and fiery temper under that calm exterior, and a drinking problem that he could not have recovered from yet, though he might think he had. What else did she not know about him? For all she knew, he could be a hard drug addict who took heroin three times a day! She just couldn't be sure that he wasn't a lying, scrounging cheat. And yet she was. She told herself it was because she had seen so many junkies and street walkers in the last year that she could tell just by looking at someone, but she knew that was ridiculous. The most respectable looking gentleman in the finest suit could be snorting a line from his dressing table every night. The truth was, she just didn't want to believe that Ron could be a man like that, because it would shatter the picture of him that she had conjured up in her own mind. A troubled but good man, who she could take in her arms and nurse back to health…

In all honesty she should have been appalled with herself for even having this sexist and twisted fantasy, which she _knew_ was ridiculous anyway. The rational part of her brain told her that subconsciously she felt guilty about what had happened in the past, and that she was trying to 'save' Ron as her penance. But really, in her heart of hearts, she knew that wasn't it. When he looked at her with those blue eyes, it was as if every bad thought just flew out of her head. He made her laugh, and she hadn't had a real reason to laugh for a long time. He paid her compliments, which she had to admit were quite flattering even if they were ridiculously exaggerated. He talked to her, really talked to her, seemed interested in what _she_ thought about things instead of wanting to make it all about him.

All the same, there was something nagging at her about him that wasn't really to do with whether or not she really was starting to have feelings for him or not. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but she knew that it was somewhere in the recesses of her mind, just trying to catch her attention. She put her fingers on her temples and thought her way through what had happened earlier that day.

-

The dinner had gone well, she had to admit. The place Ron had chosen was small but pleasant, with a homely sort of atmosphere. And it had nice bathrooms, so by her standards it was excellent – one habit Hermione had picked up from her mother was judging the quality of a restaurant by the upkeep and sanitation of its ladies. As the woman herself said, 'What use is fancy china and silk tablecloths if you have to hover five feet off the loo because you're scared you'll catch something?' Hermione thought it was one of the most useful and insightful pieces of advice her mother had ever given her.

Anyway, apart from the slightly awkward pause after what she had deemed the 'hand-holding incident', things had been going well. They had had a heated but amusing argument about who would pay the bill – Hermione had won of course, and they had split the bill down the middle – and then Ron had handed her back her coat and they had headed for the door. They had been walking back to Hermione's flat when there had been a slight lapse in conversation, and Hermione took the chance to ask something she had been wondering whether to bring up or not since a remark her companion had made earlier.

"Ron," she said briskly, "what's a muggle?"

The reaction had been instantaneous – Ron had frozen mid-step, a decidedly strange look on his face, and his hand seemed to twitch automatically towards his right pocket. He seemed to think very carefully before swallowing hard and turning his head to look at her.

"What makes you ask that?" he asked, sounding almost perfectly normal, if a little strained.

"You said it, em…" Hermione found herself unsure of what to say – this had been the main reason against bringing it up, that Ron had said it in the heat of the moment during their argument in her hallway. She had tried to avoid mentioning their previous meetings, telling herself it was so Ron didn't feel embarrassed, but knowing it was because she didn't want him to think back to what she had… done… in the bar. But this one word had stuck in her mind, because it had seemed so out of place to her. She had searched every dictionary but not found it anywhere, and she did so hate not knowing something.

"In your flat," Ron finished for her, giving her a thin lipped smile that indicated _he_ really wasn't very interested in talking about that day either.

"Yes," said Hermione gratefully, "and it sounded like you started to say it earlier. I was only wondering what it meant – I've looked everywhere but I couldn't find it."

"Well," Ron said slowly, "I don't suppose you would. It's, um, what do you call it? Sling? No, slang, that's it."

"Oh," Hermione said, comprehension dawning. "I suppose that makes sense, really. There aren't many colloquial terms in the dictionaries at the moment, though they are talking about changing that in future editions I hear…" As Hermione heard herself babbling on about the way the world was changing and the woeful use of the English Language nowadays, she noticed that Ron visibly relaxed back into himself. It was strange – it seemed she had really riled him somehow. By the time she was finished, he was nodding along with what she was saying quite happily, and she decided to try her luck again. "So, what does it mean, then?"

"Hmmm?" Ron said, stopping walking suddenly and turning to face her.

"I just wondered what the word actually meant," Hermione said, confused, "and why have we stopped?"

"You're home," Ron said simply, and looking up in amazement Hermione realised that she was. She really could talk for longer than was good for her when she got going.

"Oh, so I am," she said stupidly, then kicked herself inwardly for making such an inane comment.

"Nice to see you're on the ball," Ron said teasingly, laughing softly at her.

"Oh, shut up," Hermione said, finding herself beginning to laugh too. "Anyway – what _does_ 'muggle' mean? You never actually told me." But Ron was looking at her straight in the eyes, and all of a sudden he wasn't laughing any more. And when she saw the way he was looking at her, neither was she.

"You know what," he said in a strange, husky sort of voice, "I can't even remember now." He was moving closer towards her on the pavement, but Hermione didn't move away. She was suddenly paralysed, unable to do anything but stare back at the man in front of her.

"Oh," she said again, for the third time in a minute, but at that moment in time it seemed like the right thing to say. And then she didn't have to say anything, because Ron had moved even closer, so there was only an inch between them.

"Hermione," he said slowly, "would it be alright if I-"

But he never got to finish the sentence, because in an instant Hermione overcame her paralysis to lean in and softly brush his lips with hers. After a second she realised what she had done and pulled back in order to apologise for being so forward, but Ron lifted his hand to her cheek and put his thumb on her lower lip to stop her.

"Shhh," he said softly. He leaned in to replace his finger with his mouth, and Hermione didn't pull away again for a long time…

-

And so, they had shared their first kiss – Hermione felt herself flush a little just thinking about it – but now that she was re-examining it, she could see it in a slightly different light. At the time it had seemed almost unbearably romantic, but had Ron in truth just been trying to distract her from what she had wanted to find out? After all, she had been so giddy after they had broken apart that it had been all she could do to stammer out a 'goodbye' and arrange to meet him at the same place in three days time. What if that had been what he was aiming for? Why would anyone be that manipulative? Unfortunately, she knew the answer to that – if they had something big to hide.

Well if there was one useful skill she had learned in all her training, it was that a lawyer's mind is as good as a machine: you give it information in the form of evidence and after a period of thinking time it will spit out all possible conclusions. And so she did what she did best – she examined the evidence. Working chronologically, she noted down all the strange things she had noticed about Ron in her casebook.

When he appeared at her flat the morning after she had met him in the bar, he had shown no signs of the ill-effects of the alcohol from the night before even though he had clearly been very intoxicated. There was that strange thing he always did where whenever he felt threatened his hand automatically went to his pocket, as though some kind of weapon was concealed there. That weird feeling she had got when he had been so angry, the feeling that something very tangible was radiating from him in waves. The ease with which he had tracked her down at her workplace – she still didn't know how he had done that, and hadn't wanted to ask in case it sparked a row. The way he had fudged around the subject of his job, as though he was trying not to give too much away. Perhaps most oddly, his unfamiliarity with perfectly normal, everyday phrases and concepts, things he _must_ have heard before. Separately none of the things would probably have bothered her, but together… It was just sounding an alarm in her head, that was all.

Wracking her brains, she tried to think what the reason behind all this oddness could be, but annoyingly the answer seemed to be lurking at the very edge of her mind, unwilling to make itself known. For some reason her head just wasn't piecing things together the way she had come to rely on it to. Perhaps she was tired.

She looked at her watch, and was shocked to discover that it was almost ten o'clock. She had to be out of the house by six to in order to get to work on time in the morning. The mystery of Ron could wait until later – right now she had to concentrate on getting a decent night's sleep, uninterrupted by thoughts about the red-head. Well, she thought to herself with a smile, perhaps she would allow it to be interrupted by _some _thoughts about him…

**A/N: Apologises for the delay, but as you probably noticed this is the longest chapter yet to make up for it! I am very happy because this is the first 'kiss scene' I have ever written and I'm actually quite pleased with the way it turned out. Comments, criticisms etc are very welcome, as always.**


	8. Sleepless Nights and Secrets

**Chapter 7 – Sleepless Nights and Secrets**

4th October 2000

_He was chasing after her, running through the corridors that were so familiar to him, yet so much a part of his past now. Her tangled black hair flew wildly around her shoulders, and she looked back over her shoulder at him, wide eyes staring at him from their sunken depths as she ran. He felt like he was running through treacle, pushing as hard as he could yet never able to catch up with her. She threw back her head and laughed as he stumbled over an abandoned suit of armour, falling heavily to the ground._

"_You think you can stop me?" she spat through blackened lips. "Just let me see you try!" She continued to run, past the entrance to the Room of Requirement, and he struggled to his feet before taking chase yet again. _

_And suddenly they were outside the doors and in the grounds, and as he looked up to see the great castle towering before him he tripped and tumbled head over heels to the bottom of the stone steps. Winded, he rolled over, only to be faced by the sight of her,_ _wand pointed at his chest. A manic grin spread itself across her face and she ran her tongue over her lips, leaving a tiny globule of spit resting at the corner of her mouth. She looked as insane as he knew she was._

"_What good will you do him now, the disgusting half-blood?" she taunted, mocking him in that baby voice that sent chills down his spine while keeping her wand trained solely on his torso, "What do you think you can do for your precious mummy, those filthy blood traitors you called brothers, your impertinent, slutty little sister? They're dead, and there's no-one here to look after you any more. You're on your own, Ronnie." She leaned over him, face barely inches away from his, her disgusting breath rolling over his face in waves. And she was right. He could do nothing. "I'm going to kill you too, ickle Ronnie," she said softly, "but I'm going to make sure that when it comes, you'll want it to. I'm going to make you suffer like I have, locked underground, alone. I'm going to make you pay."_

_She drew away slightly and raised her wand to point at his head, and then suddenly her hair was becoming shorter and bushier, her features were softening, and her eyes were the colour of melting chocolate. _

"_Why, Ron?" she asked, shaking her head sorrowfully, "Why did you lie to me?"_

Ron sat bolt upright in his bed, shaking, sweat pouring down his face. His hand flew to his bedside table and his long fingers wrapped themselves tightly around his wand, bringing it to his chest. Somehow it acted as a comforter to him, and slowly he began to breathe again, taking in great gasps of air as if he was emerging from water. He tried to take slow breaths to stop him hyperventilating, like Bill had told him helped, and he felt his racing heart begin to slow. He looked across at the clock on the wall, and saw by the little light coming in through his window it was four o'clock. Feebly, he punched the pillow in disgust – he was never going to get any sleep if he carried on like this.

He had been having variations of this dream, always involving him chasing _that woman _through the corridors of Hogwarts, frequently since the day of the final battle, so it wasn't that which was worrying him. No, it was new ending which was so disconcerting. On the last three nights he had woken with the memory of Hermione burned across his mind, her accusatory face looking down at him with hurt written in her eyes. He lay slowly back down on his pillows, shutting his eyes despite knowing quite well that he would not be able to succumb to the relief of sleep again tonight. Or rather, this morning. The dreams which had haunted him since that day had always, and probably would always have this effect on him. He was used to that, and though it had its disadvantages, it did provide a significant amount of time for him to think things through. Which he had to admit was not always a good thing.

It was perfectly normal, he rationalised, to feel guilty about doing something which you didn't think was entirely honest. It was also perfectly normal to have dreams about a girl you had been seeing. It was just, he thought, smiling weakly, that the dreams were usually a great deal more… enjoyable. Clearly though, he wasn't going to be able to stop these dreams from happening unless he did something to change what it was he was feeling guilty about. There was always dreamless sleep potion, but Ron knew from experience what the dangers of addiction to that particular tonic could be. George, who had had almost as much trouble as Ron dealing with the aftermath of the war, had developed a worrying taste for the stuff that had gone unnoticed by everyone, Ron was ashamed to say, for almost too long. He had been close to the edge for a while, but Bill and Charlie had pulled through for him in the end, though he hadn't quite been the same since. Yet another person for Ron to add to the list of people he had let down.

Anyway, aside from that, the only option open to him was to work through what it was he was feeling so guilty about. Lying to Hermione. Well, lying was a strong word. It was more… not being entirely honest. He had to fight off a smile as he thought about what the woman herself would have to say about that – that those were exactly the same things, and he was only kidding himself by pretending otherwise. She really was great that way, there was no bullshit, she just cut straight to exactly what she thought and she said it. Like the other day, when she had been going on and on about the way the foundations of language were being usurped, or something like that, and she had got this light in her face that just beamed out of her, because she really, passionately believed in what she was talking about-

Startled, Ron shook himself out of his memories. Hard. He forcibly reminded himself that just after that he had made himself kiss her in order to prevent her from probing him any further about what the word 'muggle' meant. If kissing someone with false intentions – not that he hadn't _wanted_ to – didn't constitute a lie, then he couldn't think what did. This, he thought bitterly, was the reason he had to do something. He hated the fact that the memory of the first time he had kissed a girl he actually had real feelings for was tainted by the motivations behind it. He needed to do something to fix it.

He was either going to have to be a man, and tell her, or let her go. Even though he knew that sometime soon he _was_ going to have to cut her out of his life before he ruined her like he had ruined himself, a selfish part of him didn't want to do it yet. He was enjoying the little bit of happiness, limited and tainted as it was, that she brought into his life. So that left telling her. And to be honest, he didn't think he had the balls to do that, not any more.

Realising that a conclusion to his thoughts was not within his grasp at the moment, he rolled out of bed. He figured that with a quick shower and a slice of toast for breakfast, he would probably be ready by about five. That would be fine. The person he was going to visit didn't sleep at all.

* * *

Stepping into the restaurant, humming some tune that John had been playing in the office before she left – "_early,_ Miss Granger? I didn't think you were capable of such normalcy!" – Hermione realised that she really was a lot happier than she had been for a while. Her cases were all progressing smoothly (she had managed to settle the Sparks case out of court very quickly, much to her surprise), she hadn't had any falling-outs with either of her parents for at least three months, and she had yesterday been informed that she would be getting a pay rise. Actually, the smallish increase had meant that she was now in the higher tax bracket and so actually ended up with less money after taxes, but it was the _principle_ of the thing. And then there was Ron. Just the thought of this date, if you wanted to call it that (and she did), had brightened up even the dullest of letter-signing and brief-scanning she had had to do over the last few days. Not that her job was ever boring. 

Though come to think of it, she thought, looking around, where was Ron? She glanced at her watch, and sure enough it was a quarter past six. They had agreed to meet at six, but she had wanted to check something on the computer at work so had left a little later than planned. She looked across to the little table they had been seated at before, and sure enough it was set for two again. But Ron wasn't there. She tried not to think too much about it – perhaps he had been held up as well. Only slightly anxious, she headed to the elderly gentleman standing near the door with the reservations book.

"Can I help you?" he asked with a benevolent smile. He reminded Hermione slightly of her grandfather on her mother's side, who had brought her cakes in secret during one of mother's health kicks – which, her being a dentist, were numerous.

"Yes," Hermione said, smiling back at him, "I've got a table booked for six o'clock, I think it's under Weasley." She blushed slightly, still not used to the fact that even his name could make her stomach do strange acrobatics.

"Ah yes," the man said, scanning his pen down the page and tapping it lightly, "here it is right here. Table for two?"

"Yes, that's it," she said apologetically, "sorry about the delay, I got held up at work. And I'm not sure what time Ron will get here-" The man stopped her with a wave of his hand.

"Not to worry," he said kindly, "it's not a problem. That's your table right over there in the corner, if you just head over someone will be with you in a minute, and if there are any problems, don't hesitate to give me a shout – my name's Robert."

"Thank you, Robert," said Hermione gratefully, making her way across the crowded floor towards the table under the little stone archway across the restaurant. It was busy, even for London, and they had really been lucky their table had not been given away. Reaching the table and shrugging off her jacket, she settled down into her chair to wait. And wait.

By half past six, Ron still hadn't made an appearance, and she was beginning to worry. It was one thing to be a little 'fashionably' late, but a delay this long meant one of three things – either he had been held up somewhere, he had been in an accident or, the one Hermione didn't want to consider, he had simply chosen not to come. Though she hoped with all her heart that it was simply the first, or even the second (within reason), she knew it was always a possibility that she had misinterpreted what had happened between them when they'd met before. She didn't think it was likely – Ron hadn't really left her in much doubt that he'd _meant_ that kiss – but there was always the chance. It wasn't like she had never experienced the cold shoulder, she thought ruefully. Men had never exactly queued up to go out with her before. They hadn't really queued up even to just _talk _to her, truth be told. She wasn't what they were looking for, never what they were looking for. Maybe this was just another man who thought she'd been something she wasn't, and would never be prepared to be. Pushing her chair back roughly from the table, she stood up and leaned over to grab her bag from the floor. If he couldn't be bothered to show up then she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of waiting for-

"Hermione, hi."

It was him. Looking up, Hermione couldn't stop herself from inhaling sharply.

"I know," he said, a weary smile making its way across his face, as he slumped down opposite her, "I've looked better."

"No," said Hermione quickly, trying to smile in return, "you look fine, honestly." Suddenly aware that she was still standing, she drew back her chair and sat down slowly. She was lying – he looked awful.

His hair was pressed in all directions, as if he had been constantly running his hands through it for the last few hours and then got stuck outside in gale force wind. His face was ashen, rivalling even his usual pallor, though there were bright pink spots on his cheeks that betrayed the fact he had probably had to run at some point on his journey to the restaurant. The black circles under his eyes certainly looked terrible, yes, but worse were his eyes themselves. Though usually bright and sparkling, they were almost unrecognisable by their dullness, and it was as though a shutter had been pulled down over them. Hermione felt like she was looking at a different person – like somehow in the three days since they'd seen one another, he had been through hell and back. Truth be told, when she looked at him, she was a little afraid of what she saw. He seemed to realise this, and the pained smile slipped from his face.

"It's all right," he said, sounding as far from all right as she could imagine, "nothing to worry about. I've just had a bad day. Sorry for being so late."

"That's fine, you don't need to apologise," she said, and she realised that he really didn't. Any angry feelings she had been harbouring towards him had vanished when she saw him standing there, looking for all the world as if he had just witnessed death. "What happened?"

"Nothing to worry about," he said bracingly, "just a visit to an old friend which wasn't exactly... enjoyable."

"You don't get on?" Hermione felt awful as the words slipped out – it was in her nature to want to know details and facts, but this had often led to her being labelled 'nosy' or 'prying'. It was something she was trying to work on, but sometimes her mouth got ahead of her brain. Not often, but sometimes. "Sorry, it's none of my business-"

"No, it's okay," said Ron, shades of a real grin bringing a little light to his face, "I like that you're interested. It's more just that… we just can't… relate to each other the same way we could before." He broke off, looking wistfully into the distance as though remembering something long past. "It's impossible to explain."

"I'm sorry," Hermione said truthfully, because even though she didn't know the exact circumstances, she could tell that whatever had happened had hurt Ron deeply. There seemed to be a lot in his past that had caused him pain, and she wondered if he would ever feel able to talk to her about it. Then again, she really was expecting a lot from this, wasn't she? They had only been on one date and already she was planning in-depth and meaningful conversations. The kind of conversations which were often referred to as pillow-talk. The kind of conversations which took place in a bed…

"Hermione?"

"Sorry, what?" Hermione felt herself blushing furiously as a result of the slightly impure thoughts she had just been having, and tried in vain to look Ron in the eye.

"I just said thanks," said Ron, and his smile really reached his eyes this time. "You seem to have spent a lot of time saying sorry since I got here, and I was the one who was late!" Hermione laughed, grateful for a reason to release the tension that had crept into her body in her embarrassment.

"What can I say?" she said, aware that she was probably crimson by now, "I'm an apologetic person."

"Clearly," Ron said, a little of that twinkle returning to his eye as he teased her. "And what was it that caused your train of thought to wander off, I wonder?"

"You know, I really think we should order," Hermione said swiftly, and Ron laughed out loud as she grabbed the menu from the table and shoved it unceremoniously into his hands. Under the laughter though, she wondered how it was that this man could constantly switch from dark to light, on and off, and how many times he could do it before he would burn himself out.

* * *

It was a bizarre feeling, Ron thought, to find half of yourself completely relaxed and at ease and the other half so uptight that you couldn't even think straight. Sort of like being unbelievably hungry but then not being able to eat (it was typical that food was the first analogy he could think of). He couldn't fully enjoy his evening, pleasant as it was, because every time he looked across the table he was reminded of his own spectacular failure to do anything about his situation. There was no better way to put a man off food or a woman, Ron reasoned, than a guilty conscience, and as it stood he was being put off both. 

"Are you sure you're all right?" he heard Hermione ask, as his plate was whisked away by a highly efficient and therefore slightly irritating waiter.

"Yes," he said, surprised – he thought he'd been acting fairly normally under the circumstances. "Why?"

"You barely touched your chocolate slice," she said with a smile that betrayed the fact she was secretly a little worried.

"I wasn't that hungry," he lied.

"Right," said Hermione, sounding unconvinced as the smile slipped off her face. She had seemed wary of him since the beginning of the night, as if she was treading on eggshells in an effort to avoid antagonising him. He couldn't blame her for that: he knew from experience that the visits took it out of him, both physically and emotionally.

"We should probably get going," Ron said after a pause, "it's getting late."

"Yes, I suppose it is," said Hermione bluntly, and he could tell that her tolerance was beginning to waver.

"All right," Ron said limply, not knowing what else to say. The evening seemed to have taken a turn towards the awkwardness of before, and he realised that he didn't like it one bit.

Without warning, Hermione stood up and shrugged her jacket over her shoulders, fishing about in her bag. She pulled out two notes and threw them down on the table.

"Wait," said Ron, "I didn't mean-"

"No," Hermione interrupted, "I know you didn't, but I did. You are a puzzle, Ron Weasley, and one that I'm not sure I can solve. It seems like I never know where I stand – you're constantly putting up a wall and then taking it down again. You can never decide whether you're letting me in or pushing me away, can you? Well, I'm making the decision for you." Ron felt as though he'd been hit by a wave of panic. He realised, quite suddenly, that he was not ready to let what was happening here go.

"Look, Hermione-"

"Don't worry about it," she said dismissively as she pushed her chair back under the table, though he thought her eyes were glimmering slightly. "I've made up my mind." She turned her back and started to walk towards the front door of the restaurant.

Years later, Ron could never say exactly what it was that made him do what he did. It was a sort of combination of feelings of loss, that he didn't understand, desperation, which he did, and a kind of severe ache in his chest that told him if he let that woman walk out the door he would regret it for the rest of his life. At the time, he wasn't aware of all this – he simply stood up and said her name, loudly enough that she could hear but quietly and urgently enough that she actually turned round and looked at him. He summoned all the courage that he had left, and said what he knew he had to.

"I know the truth about you."

**

* * *

A/N: I'm not sure about this chapter, to be honest. It's got all the things I wanted in it, but for some reason I just don't like it. Having read through it, I realise there isn't a lot of dialogue, and I wonder if you think this is a problem? I figured I'd probably already made you wait long enough for this update without tinkering about with it any more though! Anyway, because of the time of year and the pressures on coursework etc, updates are not going to be quite as frequent as before. They won't take as long as this did, but they probably won't be every week! Please R&R and either reassure me or confirm my feelings about the chapter.**


	9. Interrupted Thoughts

**Chapter 8 – Interrupted Thoughts**

She heard the words, but they didn't really sink in. Slowly, she pivoted back around to face him.

"What?"

"I-" Ron seemed to lose his nerve, faltering slightly, before giving himself a little shake and meeting her eyes. "I know the truth." Hermione could tell he wasn't lying. She felt her heart begin to hammer in her chest as the adrenaline being released by her brain began rushing around her body at a hundred miles an hour.

"What are you talking about, Ron?" she said slowly, without moving back towards him. They were speaking softly but she could tell that people at the surrounding tables were beginning to pay attention to the exchange that was taking place in the middle of the restaurant. Out of the corner of her eye Hermione saw the old man, Robert, shift slightly as if to move towards them, but she focused her attention on Ron. He looked right back at her, emotions unreadable on a blank face.

"You know what I'm talking about," he said in measured tones, "don't you?"

Hermione couldn't help it – her body was telling her that this was a fight or flight situation, and as far as she could see there was only one option open to her. She bolted like a startled deer, albeit with a little less grace, and half-ran to the door. She could hear Ron calling after her, but she kept going in the cruel hope that he would be stopped to pay the bill before being allowed to leave, giving her a head-start. Luckily, being eight o'clock on a weeknight, there were taxis drifting aimlessly all over the road in both directions, and Hermione hailed one desperately. The huge black cab pulled over by the side of the road, and she yanked the door open before practically falling into it.

"'Ello love! 'ad a bit much, 'ave we? Well, when the drink gets the bett'r' of us-"

"Could you just drive?" Hermione said quickly, interrupting the driver's traditional cockney banter – she knew they just put it on to get a bigger tip, but it had never irritated her more than now. "Please," she added as an grudging afterthought.

"Right you are, love," the driver continued, apparently unperturbed by her lack of manners, "where to?"

"Jamieson's Own, Wandsworth."

"'At's a while t'go for anuvver drink!"

"I live above it," said Hermione impatiently, glancing out of the window in an attempt to see whether Ron had made it out of the little restaurant. She couldn't see. "Could we just go, please?"

"No problem, love," he said cheerily, putting his foot down and apparently by-passing first gear in favour of gunning straight into fourth, "we're on our way!"

Hermione slumped backwards in her seat, partly due to the increase in speed but mostly in an effort to release the tension that had taken hold of her body. She shuddered involuntarily, though it wasn't cold in the back of the cab. It was that awful feeling you get like someone's 'walked over your grave', and you don't really know why. Only this time, she did. She tried to slow her pounding heart, breathing in and out with measured breaths. She couldn't believe the night had taken such a turn. She had so been looking forward to it, but Ron had just seemed so distracted throughout, and she had really lost her temper-

"That'll be Merton Street in Wandsworth love, will it?" The cabby's loud voice came buzzing through the static of the intercom, interrupting her train of thought.

"That's it, yes," she replied distractedly, trying to work her way through the night in her head. She hadn't been able to take the subtle rebuffs any more, and she had just snapped. Even though she hadn't understood why he was doing it or if it was on purpose, it had still hurt. Though now she knew why, at least-

"I 'ad a cousin liv'd in Wandsworth." God help her, she might just end up strangling him.

"That's nice," she said coolly, her voice betraying the fact that she was not at all interested in his cousin or any members of his extended family, she just wanted to get home. He didn't take the hint.

"Name of Alfie. Thought 'e was dead posh, 'e did, livin' next to the big 'ouses as they 'ave there. On'y I said to 'im, I said, 'Alfie, you couldn' swing a cat in your 'ouse, so why d'you think you're bett'r than me?' That shut 'im up, I can tell you…"

Clearly subtlety was not working, so Hermione decided to just try to drone out the abrasive voice and get back to worrying about her own life and what a mess it was in. It was funny – not that she felt remotely like laughing at the moment – that only a few hours previously she had felt as if everything was just perfect, and now this. Any hope of a new relationship had been shattered, all those exciting feelings had been wasted and were never going to be followed through. Not only that, but she was now in a very dangerous position. Everything she had worked so hard for, Ron could demolish with one fell swoop. After all, who would carry on employing someone after they found out they were a freak, abnormal, quite possibly incompetent. Who would trust her, if they knew-

"'Ere love, you alright back there?" Hermione looked up to see the cabby's eyes meeting hers in the mirror, concern written across his features, all thoughts of friendly banter gone from his head. And she couldn't help but wonder how he would look at her if he knew the truth, the concern replaced perhaps with fear, or pity, or hate. But not acceptance. Never acceptance. People wouldn't be able to understand – s_he_ didn't even fully understand. She felt a lump begin to form in her throat, and suddenly more than anything all she wanted was to be a child again, at home in her room, with her mother standing over her smiling and her father telling her that everything would be all right. And then she pictured her mother smiling at her over a half-empty wine glass and her father's rigid, furious face as he told her how she had ripped the family apart, and the moment was gone. And all she wanted to do was cry.

"I'm fine," she said shortly, as always hiding her emotions behind that vital mask that she worked so hard to maintain.

"Long as you're sure, love," the cabby said, his voice betraying the fact that he didn't believe her. His job was not to console though – his job was to listen, if you wanted him too, and talk if you didn't.

"Are we almost there?" asked Hermione quickly in an effort to change the subject and pull herself together before she fell apart at the seams in front of this complete stranger.

"Matter of fact we are, m'dear," the driver said as he pulled into Merton Street, passing the abandoned warehouse that cast a permanent shadow over Hermione's building. It was a wonder, she thought distractedly, that Mr Jamieson had so many customers, really, even if they were all regulars. She thought that if she hadn't been given the address by a colleague she would never have ventured down the street in a million years. It looked… dead. Which suited her fine, at the moment. She dragged herself up and out of the seat as the car slowed to a halt by the front entrance of the pub, grabbed her bag from the dingy floor and reached for the handle of the door. As she pulled it backwards a blast of polluted air hit her in the face, making her feel nauseous and giddy as she made her way out of the cab.

"'Old on!" came the taxi driver's indignant voice, "you 'aven't paid me yet! That's a tenner, straight."

"Sorry," Hermione said hurriedly, as her stomach gave a sickening jolt, "em, give me a minute…"

Shit. She had used up the last of her cash throwing it on the table for dramatic effect in the restaurant. And she was pretty sure she didn't have any more. Rooting her purse out of her bag, Hermione thought that this definitely ranked as one of the worst nights of her life, and she had had more bad nights than most. True enough, as sod's law would have it, she had a grand total of six pence in coppers. She felt the lump begin to form in her throat again, as hot tears threatened to spill over. It was ridiculous, really – here she was, standing half in and half out of a taxi, almost crying because she didn't have enough money to pay for it. But, ridiculous or not, everything had just built up so much within her that she knew she wasn't going to be able to hold it in for very much longer.

"I'm really sorry," she said in a whisper, "but I don't think I have en-"

"I'll get that."

The quiet, assured voice came from the front door of the bar, and she knew who it was without having to turn around. But she turned anyway.

* * *

Well, Ron thought to himself as he frantically shoved bills at the pathetically slow waiter in charge of his table, it wasn't as if he shouldn't have seen it coming. If he had actually thought about what her response might be before his spontaneous outburst he would probably have had a few worse scenarios than her just running away floating around his head, possibly culminating with his head ending up through the table. But he hadn't thought about it – he had just said it. And as a result, he was now panicking rather badly. 

"I'm sorry, is that enough?" he said distractedly as he yanked his coat over his shoulders, practically kicking the chair out from under him in an attempt to get it out of his way.

"Yes, sir, that's plenty," the waiter said, and between the gleam in his eye and the smile on his face Ron was quite sure that what he had given the man was far more than what he actually should have. But, for once, Ron didn't care about the money: he had more important things to be worrying about. He stepped past the waiter – slimy git, he thought – and walked as quickly as he deemed appropriate without drawing attention to himself towards the exit.

"Have a nice night, sir," said the old man standing next to the door in a sympathetic voice, as if he knew exactly what was going on. And, Ron thought bitterly, from watching the row – if you could call it that – that had just taken place, he probably did.

"Thanks," he said roughly as he pushed the door open. A blast of air hit him in the face, and he screwed up his eyes against the unnatural October chill. He opened them just in time to see a muggle taxi fly past at well over the speed limit, and with a sinking heart realised that he probably knew exactly who was in it, and where it was going. Nevertheless, he ran up the street after it, hoping in vain that she had decided for some insane reason to walk home, knowing that it wasn't the case.

After about three minutes of sprinting down the dark and lonely pavement he finally admitted to himself that he had lost her – there was no way she could have been further ahead of him than that if she'd walked. Out of breath and feeling like he'd just been kicked in the stomach, he headed slowly back in the direction of the restaurant. He didn't even know why.

As he looked up at its stone front ten minutes later, he found it hard not to drop to the ground in sheer disbelief. How had things gone so horribly wrong? He had let things get in the way, he knew that he hadn't been fully concentrated on her, but he had had reasons. Not that she knew that, but still. And then he had been stupid enough to blurt _that_ out – why couldn't he have just listened to what his brain was telling him and shy away from the truth, why did he only decide to grow balls when it was going to get him into trouble? His stupid mouth had got him into problems so many times, that he couldn't keep track-

"Excuse me? Are you all right?"

Ron looked up, and tried not to let out a groan. It was the old man from the door. It wasn't that he objected particularly strongly to elderly muggles accosting him in the street – wait, he probably should, come to think of it – but he really wasn't in the mood to be sympathised with at the moment. He was in the mood to punch something. And he didn't want it to be this old man – he seemed nice.

"I'm fine," he said shortly, wondering if it would be too rude to simply turn round and walk away.

"Only, you don't seem to be, if I'm honest." Merlin, who was this guy?

"Look, Mr…"

"Robert," said the man, his eyes meeting Ron's over his glasses, "and I don't mean to pry. It's just that, if you don't mind me saying, you seem to have made an awful mess of things."

"Excuse me?" Ron said disbelievingly, not quite sure if he had heard properly.

"Yes," Robert continued, looking quite unabashed, "you have, haven't you? I thought so. Though I'm quite sure it's not your fault, we men often tend to have difficulty understanding the finer working of a female's brain." Ron began to wonder if the man was indeed all quite there.

"Sorry, but why are you talking to me, exactly?" he said bluntly.

"Forgive me," Robert said, "but I've worked here for a very long time, and I'm not sure I've ever seen any meeting between a couple go quite like that. Or rather, end quite like that." Ron blushed, looking down at the ground.

"We're not…" he started, trailing off. He took a deep breath before continuing. "We were never a couple."

"Really?" said Robert, and the surprise in his voice was evident. "Well, I'm afraid I misjudged the situation. After all these years, you'd think I'd be able to read people…" He broke off, and started to move back towards the door and the welcoming warmth of the restaurant. "Sorry to bother you with my rubbish, then. I hope you have a nice night."

"Wait!" Ron said suddenly, a thought having occurred to him. The old man turned back round to look at him, brow furrowed in confusion. "What was it that made you think we were together?"

"Well, I would have thought that was obvious," he said with a smile. "When you arrived, I've never seen anyone look quite as relieved to see someone as she was! It was like… like a light had been switched on, for want of a better description. And she never took her eyes off you the whole night – and vice versa, I might add." He paused, looking at Ron's stricken face, and suddenly seemed to understand. "Ahh… never a couple, but the hope was there, was it not?" Ron nodded, not wanting to speak. He felt awful. The old man regarded him with a sad smile, before moving closer to him again as if to confide something.

"Son, here's a piece of advice for you, and I know I'm just a strange old codger to you so you can take it or leave it. No matter what stupid thing you've done, not that I'm saying it's your fault, if there was enough hope there to make you want to try for it in the first place, then there's enough left for you to try and fix it. Go after her. Take it from someone who knows – you'll regret it if you don't."

Slowly, Ron looked up and met the man's eyes, and the sadness he saw there was enough to convince him. He looked at his watch – it had only been twenty minutes since Hermione had left. In this traffic, she should be just arriving home. He looked up again to see Robert smiling at him, and opened his mouth to try to communicate his gratitude.

"Just go," Robert said, laughing, "and do be sure to come back when you work it out."

"Thanks!" Ron said over his shoulder, already turning and running down the street, feeling the old man's eyes watching him all the while. He looked hastily around for an empty alley in which to Disapparate, a feeling of hope beginning to build in his chest again. Finding an abandoned spot, he focused all his concentration on that greasy pub and the woman who, hopefully, would be standing outside it, and turned slowly on the spot, feeling the world begin to squeeze in at the edges and the spots forming in front of his closed eyes…

With a pop, he appeared almost exactly outside the front door of Jamieson's Own, Merton Street. Just in time to see a black cab pull up outside it.

**A/N: I know, I know, Wandsworth – but I couldn't resist! I'm not implying at all that the real place is shabby or run-down, I've never been there, but the name was just perfect. I like this chapter a lot more than the last one, though I have left you with a bit of a cliffhanger! The taxi driver's accent is **_**supposed**_** to be cockney, but it's probably a bit dodgy. London is not my strong point, you may have guessed, having only been there about three times. Anyway, as always ****please review**** to let me know what you think. Next up is the confrontation between the two – it's been a long time coming, and I apologise that you might have to wait for it as long as you did for this one. Hopefully not longer though :)**


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